


Sleepless

by kerithwyn



Series: Beyond the Fringe: Tales from the Kinkmeme [12]
Category: Fringe
Genre: Fringe Kink Meme, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerithwyn/pseuds/kerithwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lincoln can’t sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepless

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to samjohnsson for beta, especially when I ambush him with sudden!porn.
> 
> Written for the [Fringe kinkmeme](http://fringe-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/) using the following prompt:
> 
> Blue!Lincoln, masturbation  
> "Things that make it hard for Lincoln to sleep." Or just hard.

The list of things that make it hard for Lincoln to sleep goes something like this: Robert, shapeshifters, sentient fungi, invisible men, alternate universes, and Boston.

The list of things that make it hard for Lincoln--to sleep, and otherwise--goes something like this: Robert, Olivia, Peter, Astrid, the other Olivia, and his own damn alternate.

Lincoln never actually *means* to fall for his partners and the other agents he works with. No one ever does, he supposes. It’s no mystery why; the things they deal with on a daily basis are exceedingly intense. Even the mundane cases he used to work in Hartford had elements that made it difficult to connect with anyone outside the Bureau. It wasn’t a matter of talking about the details of the cases--classified is classified, Fringe Division or otherwise--but the feeling that the other person might understand the kind of stress he was under. Julie Danzig had been amazing, that way. But there was an extraordinarily high divorce rate among agents, and it was easy to understand why.

Any shrink would say the same: the people he works with every day are also caught up in the same kinds of craziness, no explanations needed to be on the same emotional page. And they all just *happen* to be bright, beautiful, accomplished, and ridiculously desirable. 

Hot, even.

Robert used to meet him at the door without any pants, for God’s sake. Olivia’s sensible suits don’t hide the graceful bend of her neck, or the freckles on her cheeks peeking through her make-up. Lincoln’s constantly caught off-guard by the curve of Astrid’s breasts, the delicate length of her fingers; by Peter’s strong shoulders and the intensity of his gaze; by every movement of the Olivia on the other side, so aware of her body that the hip-swings that draw attention to her ass can’t be anything but deliberate. By the way the other Lincoln catches his eye and smirks, tongue darting out to touch his lip, before turning away.

Lincoln manages not to embarrass himself on a daily basis, if for no other reason than there’s usually no *time* during the course of their investigations to let his thoughts wander. And the rest of the time, he can resort to paperwork. There is a reason why his reports are so thorough, and so extensive. Writing up every possible relevant detail keeps him out of trouble.

At night, though, he’s left alone with his own thoughts and the mental pictures of his associates. Peter’s smile as he thanked Lincoln for being the only one to treat him like a human being. Olivia running her hands through his hair, fingers stroking against the natural fall to mimic his alternate’s spiky ’do. The gleam in Captain Lee’s eyes as he held up the handcuffs.

He used to try to deny those images, feeling like they violated some kind of trust. But what he didn’t allow his conscious mind came tumbling out in dreams, ever-more elaborate fantasies that woke him shaking and gasping and striping the sheets like a horny teenager. Awake, Lincoln at least had enough control to save his laundry.

It was a convenient excuse.

He’s a man surrounded by magnificent, untouchable people and it’s been months since his last intimate moment with another human being, even more since his last significant relationship. Random hook-ups were all very fine when he was back in Hartford--the gym had always yielded better results than a bar. But Lincoln’s been off-balance since he arrived in Boston and the thought of the effort is just too much, never mind the fact that he didn’t really want anyone to see his ratty little hotel room. If he was going to stay in this city, he really needed to find a better place.

That was an excuse, too.

Because Lincoln doesn’t just fall for his partners, he falls in love with them. Every damn time. Robert had been oblivious and thank God for that, but everyone on the Fringe team is far too perceptive and Lincoln had never been able to keep that kind of secret. He’s not *mooning* after any of them yet, but it’s probably only a matter of time. If Olivia meets him at the diner one more time. If Peter makes another “gesture” like the gift of the glasses. If Astrid invites him to dinner with that sparkle in her eye. If Liv and Lee get him in that closet again--

Lincoln groans and gives up on his feeble attempt at restraint for the evening. He really does need to sleep, and the best, surest way is to just give his body what it wants, flood his brain with endorphins so it shuts off the mental slideshow. Disrespectful violation or not, it’s an equitable exchange for a fair night’s rest.

He kicks off the top sheet and slides his hand down into the loose boxers he’s been using as sleep shorts. (The pajamas that Jules bought for him are still packed away, waiting for a colder night or maybe someone to laugh at them with him.) He’s already half-hard and the first touch of his fingers against his cock diverts what’s left of the blood going to his brain. It’s going to be quick tonight, no time for elaborate teasing or mechanical assistance. Lincoln’s other hand does fumble for the inevitable lube on the bedside table, though, because quick or not, he does have standards to maintain. Things worth doing are worth doing right.

The familiarity of long practice keeps him from letting the slick stuff leak all over his hands and the bed sheets. Lincoln kicks the boxers off too, wanting air on his skin, even if it’s stale recycled hotel air. Now that he’s properly arranged, his right hand heads downward again, his left hand sliding up and underneath the pillow to be anchored under his head. Sometimes it’s the other way around, or his free hand toying with his nipples or applying another finger full of lube to his ass, but not tonight. 

He starts with a firm stroke and his hips automatically jerk upward into the touch. Sometimes it’s a self-imposed challenge, keeping himself perfectly still with no movement other than that of his hand, but tonight he really is just looking for fast relief. Aching for it already. His fingers underneath the pillow flex instinctively, like they’re trying to provide a hint for his other hand.

Suggestion received. Lincoln wraps his right hand around his cock and closes his eyes, establishing a straightforward rhythm and letting his body do the rest. The drive toward orgasm is as simple and uncomplicated as anything gets, a primal urge that doesn’t need embellishment to be satisfying. And yes, it’d be better if it was someone else’s hand, but it’s not. Lincoln isn’t going to spend time bemoaning that fact, not when his hips are arcing with every thrust into his fist and what remains of his concentration is dedicated toward swallowing his groans, mindful of the thin walls.

The neat slideshow in his head dissolves into random images from an impossible-in-two-universes, physics-defying orgy: Astrid kissing her way down his chest, Liv’s lips wrapping around him, Peter’s tongue in his ass, his own hands working Lee’s cock, his mouth on Olivia’s clit.

He feels his balls tightening toward the inevitable conclusion and sometimes that’d be the signal to ease up, to let the immediacy recede and start again more slowly, but tonight he speeds up, racing toward the finish without hesitation. When Lincoln comes it’s with a yelp he can’t quite bite back. Too bad for his neighbors. He gives himself a few more strokes, drawing out the sensations right to the edge of discomfort, feeling the post-orgasm lassitude settling into his nerves and the corners of his mind that won’t let him rest.

The tissues and waste bin right next to the bed make clean up easy and Lincoln stretches only far enough to grab at the fallen sheet, ignoring his boxers. He’ll wake in the morning hard once more, and might as well spare himself the effort of undressing again. Always better to start the day on a positive note, especially these days.

And finally, satisfaction and exhaustion overwhelming his awareness, Lincoln sleeps.


End file.
